Swish-swish-swish!
Six pairs of Sharingan snapped toward Uchiha Hanjo at the exact same second, the crimson pinwheels in their irises practically screaming, "Dude, is the kid actually serious?"
Hanjo, sweat already staging a coup on his hairline, forced a grin that looked more like a grimace."So, yeah," he began, voice cracking like an over-budget stage prop, "I dragged you legends here for exactly what Genji just blurted out. I need top-tier shinobi—our people, not some random Leaf rent-a-nin—to back the new Uchiha Trade Consortium. Family discount, obviously."
The room went so quiet you could hear someone's kunai holster creak.
Uchiha Omura—the unofficial spokesman for 'We're Too Pretty for This'—blinked first."You want us," he said, each word drier than the last, "to clock in for a merchant guild? Like… payroll, coffee breaks, maybe a little desk-plaque that reads 'Official Badass'?"
His tone implied he'd just been asked to wear a frilly apron and serve dango to civilians.
Hanjo tried again, softer. "Look, the title's 'Consortium Guardian.' Sounds way cooler, right? Same job as escorting a caravan for the village—minus the Hokage breathing down our necks."
Omura snorted. "Minus the Hokage, minus the respect, plus the shame of being seen haggling over shipping rates. Pass."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the clan elites. They'd rather swallow live shuriken than admit they were broke enough to chase ryo.
Genji—Hanjo's little cousin, resident loose cannon, and walking migraine—rolled his eyes so hard the ceiling fan wobbled."Right, because clinging to your 'noble warrior' brand is totally paying the grocery bills. Must be nice, buying pride in bulk."
One of the older jonin, Uchiwa Hiraku, actually hissed. "Watch your tongue, runt. We are Uchiha. We do not—"
"—bend the knee to spreadsheets, blah blah," Genji finished for him. "Got it. Meanwhile, Aunt Kana's selling heirloom fans at the flea market to afford diapers. Super dignified."
Hanjo lifted both hands, peace-treaty style. "I'm not asking you to kneel. I'm asking you to stand next to me—get paid, keep our people fed, and maybe flip Konoha the bird while we're at it."
The word 'Konoha' landed like a kunai in a chalkboard. Everyone flinched.
See, once upon a time, the Uchiha crest had been stitched onto the village's very soul. Now it felt more like a scar the Leaf kept hidden under tactical tape. Ever since the Second Hokage's era—when Madara stormed off in a melodrama worthy of kabuki—every administration had found creative ways to shove the clan into a corner. Guard duty for the police force? Sure. Actual battlefield missions that paid real money? LOL, nope.
After the Fourth's death, the Third's comeback tour had doubled down: fewer missions, tighter surveillance, whispers in the wind that the Uchiha were one "oops" away from another purge. Their once-overflowing coffers now echoed like empty ramen bowls. And the village's message was crystal:Be grateful we let you guard the gates, peasants.
Hanjo pressed on. "Omura, you've got twin daughters. Last I checked, tiny humans inhale food and clothes at an alarming rate. You really planning to tell them, 'Sorry, sweethearts, Daddy's too proud to earn a paycheck'?"
Omura's jaw locked.
"Hiraku," Hanjo pivoted, "your newborn son's first word is going to be 'ramen' because that's all you can afford. You want him growing up thinking the Sharingan is just a fancy night-light?"
The room temperature dropped ten degrees. Guilt is a brutal jutsu—no hand seals required.
Hanjo exhaled. "I'm done bowing to a village that starves us and then calls it 'balance.' Let them handle their own S-rank messes. We'll build something that actually feeds our kids—and maybe sticks a kunai in the establishment while we're at it."
Silence again, but this one was thoughtful, itchy, like a rash about to erupt.
Then Uchiwa Hiraku—the same guy who'd hissed—slammed his palm on the table so hard the tea set did a synchronized hop."Screw it," he growled. "I'm in. I've buried three cousins in two years because 'the proud Uchiha were the only ones strong enough' for suicide runs. My wife cries into her pillow so the neighbors won't hear. I'm done being Konoha's disposable lighter."
He turned to Omura, eyes blazing. "Brother, we can either be legends in the bingo books or legends in our own homes. Pick one."
Omura's gaze flicked to the window, where the Hokage monument loomed like a smug marble parent. Then to his calloused hands—hands that used to sign mission scrolls, now signing IOUs to the clan granary.
Finally, he laughed: short, bitter, but real."Fine," he muttered. "But if anyone calls me 'employee of the month,' I'm setting their socks on fire."
The dam broke. Two more jonin shrugged and nodded. One even cracked a smile at Genji's victory finger-guns.
Hanjo clapped once, loud and sharp. "Welcome to the Consortium, you magnificent, disgruntled bastards. First order of business—code names. Because if we're going corporate, we're doing it with style."
Genji produced a stack of fake business cards from nowhere like a ninja magician. Each card shimmered with a tiny genjutsu: the Uchiha fan wreathed in stylized flames, tagline underneath—"Will of Fire? Sorry, we upgraded."
Omura snorted despite himself. Hiraku actually chuckled. Somewhere in the distance, an old elder probably sensed the clan's collective blood pressure spike and dropped his tea.
Hanjo leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that still managed to echo."Next week, we're escorting a caravan to the Land of Waves—premium cargo, premium fee. No Hokage paperwork, no village council side-eye. Just us, our skills, and enough ryo to make our grandkids laugh at the word 'allowance.'"
He raised an imaginary glass. "To new traditions, fatter wallets, and the glorious sound of Konoha realizing we just ghosted their mission roster."
The room erupted—not in clan-polite applause, but in the rowdy, slightly unhinged cheer of people who'd finally remembered what hope tasted like.
Outside, the evening sun painted the Uchiha compound in molten orange, as if the sky itself was signing off on their rebellion. Somewhere, a crow cawed approval.
And deep beneath the Hokage Tower, an aged shadow stirred, sensing the shift. Too late, old man. The Uchiha just rage-quit your game.